


apologies falling on deaf ears but being heard

by BlooodyMoon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Attitudes, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Feelings Realization, Gay Awakening, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Toxic Masculinity, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, LGBTQ History of the Continent, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Queer Themes, Repressed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Secret Relationship, Written by Queer Author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlooodyMoon/pseuds/BlooodyMoon
Summary: It's been months since the incident on the mountain. Jaskier is trying to live his life amidst heartbreak and a looming war until he gets captured by Nilfgaardians in search of Geralt's child surprise. After torture leaves him broken, he manages to escape and searches for the one person he knows that could help, even if that's the last thing he wants to do.While fleeing from Nilfgaard Jaskier learns more about the spy networks, black markets and the long buried queer history of the Continent.On the other side Geralt learns more about himself and how to be a father.With their new knowledge they are trying to find each other again, fix the broken pieces and heal the pain.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Largo

**Author's Note:**

> Shows up 3 days to late with half the fic and sleeping only 2 nights out of the last 4.
> 
> I wrote this fic for the [**Witcher Big Bang**](https://witcherbigbang.tumblr.com) and it totally escaped me in the editing process, so the second half will be posted in the near future.
> 
> Thank to my incredible Beta and Friend [**wandschrankheld**](https://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com) who not only made this fic better, but also help me calm myself in my panics.  
> And my amazing Artist [**maximproving**](https://maximproving.tumblr.com) who drew the Great Cover ([ _Tumblr Link_](https://maximproving.tumblr.com/post/630700550327025664/apologies-falling-on-deaf-ears-but-being-heard)) who endured and still encourage me.
> 
> _Basically I started making it, had a breakdown. Bon Appetite!_
> 
> Update February 2021:  
> I am still working on finishing this fic, just 2020 and starting University over Zoom hit me over the head. :/  
> But my plan is to finish it in the semester holidays till the end of march.
> 
> Click [**Here**](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3d1c46216a811eac126ff8ed71880a2f/tumblr_inline_qhhawtaz2P1r59sfh_500.png) To See Spoilery Additional Warnings!

The crowd is cheery and drunk, Jaskier can hear the refrain of "Fishmonger’s Daughter" drunkenly slurred over scraping chairs and the soft muttering of the barmaid picking up the rest of the plates’ shards. An old gentleman had thought himself young and sober enough to dance on the table (he was wrong on both accounts) and had more than himself taken off the table when tumbling down.

He gives her an apologetic smile while reaching for his ale, which luckily hadn’t been sent flying since his last break.

"Play ‘Toss a Coin’!" 

Jaskier hides his wince.

You would think, _hope_ that without the titular witcher the song would lose its charm. But he knows better than that,wanting to hear about the White Wolf is only part of it’s charm. It is the catchy melody, the adventure that draws them in. The price to pay for conveying to the audience that witchers are actual heroes.

In some towns the song plays better without Geralt, freeing the people from the guilt of having to give money to a witcher (or his companion). Cheapskates.  
But that can’t be said about this audience.

He already played "Buzzed Alps and Buzzing Swords" about Geralt fighting alps to placate the audience.

It is more of a drinking song, telling the tale about the alps throwing a massive party. The witcher's involvement only used as a framing device, only being mentioned between the verses and to later kill the monsters too drunk to notice their incoming demise.

In reality the fight had been vicious. The family of alps had been known for their parties, but they had grown understandably weary after the town had put up notices calling for a witcher. He had learned to pop a shoulder back in that evening, a skill he would never have imagined learning in his younger years.

He debates if he can get away with not playing it. The crowd had been generous, they probably would forgive him if he leaves the song out of his performance, but you can never be sure, especially with a crowd as drunk as this.

He sighs before finishing his drink to return to the "stage" (a slightly higher platform that is more of a tripping hazard than actually useful when performing).  
"Don’t worry, my dear audience, ‘Toss a Coin’ will be one of tonight's closers.  
And don’t you boo. I will have to finish this set at some point tonight or probably tomorrow if my crowd stays as great as it is now."

By putting the song at the end he hopes to bypass any requests to repeat it.  
He is a professional; he can’t stop singing his songs just because the memories were now tainted with heartbreak, he would have to throw out over half his catalog and what he is known for. They are his songs, his works, his time and talent spent composing them (while walking next to Roach and he really shouldn't follow that thought) and he **wouldn’t _couldn’t_** let Geralt take them from him.

But "Toss a Coin"...  
It is different, _special_.

It is the first song he ever wrote about Geralt (then not for him, but that changed like his feelings for him). Their first adventure. The first notes he played on his beloved lute.  
It means a lot to him.  
More than society could know about. He had been careful in Oxenfurt, in noble courts, he doesn’t want to be careful about his adoration for Geralt, so long as people mistake it for hero worship.

Dull clinking fills the air when Jaskier enters the tavern. There isn’t any typical conversation over the sound of cutlery scraping against bowls and plates.

His look around confirms his suspicion, most are more hanging than sitting over their food, nursing their hangovers and avoiding conversations.  
And no matter how fun it would be to engage someone in an exasperatingly loud conversation, the easiest way to get chased out of a town is to rally drunks against you, the second easiest is to do it the morning after. _The bigots had deserved it._

Smiling at the barmaid he orders an ale and what they serve for lunch, a chicken stew and he hopes that it’s as good as the last days and not leftovers hungover people won’t complain about.

Returning with his tankard and bowl the barmaid directs his attention to her.  
"Will you be staying next week?"  
Her voice is soft, mindful of the other patrons, leaning forward and putting her décolleté on full display. It’s a nice décolleté but he isn’t sure if it is intentional.

"Sadly no. I plan to make my way to Katwiercz in the next days. As lovely as this village is, the road calls to me."

Ten days of playing in the same tavern is the most he can play before he becomes unpaid background noise.  
He had the luck that the second weekend went so well. A local table maker had celebrated his birthday.  
There isn’t a second tavern, even if the village is just big enough for one. If he is allowed to guess, the tavern is so old and grew with the village, transforming into tradition.  
That guess has nothing to do with the inscription over the counter.  
****

**"Hellensen’s oldest tavern, 1057!"**

A change of location is necessary, a town where he can circle through taverns and stay in one inn is the thing he needs.

His patience for traveling outdoors had dwindled after his chance to go with his witcher had been ground to zero. 

"You have to be careful! The forest is full of bandits, and has been for the last months. Quite a lot about people getting robbed or disappearing.  
But! There are a few merchants who are hiring mercenaries. You could ask if you could join their group?" 

"And who best to ask for that?"

Putting a finger to her mouth.  
"I know for sure about the fabric seller, but I think that the, ahh, trinket merchant is organizing it, so best ask him."

"Thank you for the tip!"  
He smiles and adds another bronze coin to his payment before handing it to her, realising that she still has both his tankard and bowl in hand, placing it on the counter, then taking his lunch back to the table.

Jaskier makes his way to the marketplace around late afternoon, when it is bound to be almost empty and striking up a conversation would not deter any customer.

Looking around, the reflecting light of metal draws him to his goal. The wares are neatly organized and one side of the table a lot more shiny. Freshly polished but clearly in the order of type and not of the biggest and most eye catching trinkets first. His eyes fall on a brush engraved with the lunar cycles and a small amber stone inserted on the bottom. It isn’t polished yet but it feels nice in his hand, good balance, before putting it down again and turning to the vendor.

"You have lovely wares here, that brush is tempting... but I actually came to ask about the transport that is headed to Katwiercz?"

The man looks him over, before furrowing his brows and stroking his mustache.  
"With you joining our cavern it would be 102 crowns."

"That's quite high," and Jaskier isn't sure if he can pay that, he would risk running dry in the next town if his singing isn't wanted or much more likely the tavern has agreements with local bards. He could let his fame play a role, but even then a single night of entertaining couldn't make up for a week. 

"I don't have any wares to protect and I could provide the company with music while traveling, surely free music from a renowned bard like Jaskier could make for a discount?" 

"Wouldn't be free then, would it?" It is a good natured jest and the merchant lets out a laugh at Jaskier’s answering lopsided grin.

"Would be well worth it, mercenaries make incredibly boring conversationalists." A new voice rings out as another merchant steps to the table, wearing an apron. 

"So you are joining us? Did the spices from Zerrikania finally get delivered?" 

A frustrated sneer passes over the man's face.  
" **No.** But in his last letter the boss said to go if they don't arrive till wednesday and I highly doubt it, with how unreliable they are."

"Fucking suppliers!" grumbles the man opposite Jaskier, and he knows to leave it be. Even with war brewing, merchants love to complain about shitty roads, shitty brothels and delays on both of them. The group of merchants momentarily forgets about him as they talk amongst themselves, joined by two others.

"So who is in favor of giving the bard a discount for his services?"

"Master Bard!" Jaskier preens, not eager to sell himself short, "Winner of last year's Northern Bardic Competition!" Among other things, it would take a bit to list all his accomplishments, but he doesn't want to give the impression of a snobbish bard that can't pull his weight.

"Might make the trip actually fun." Excitement colors Sven’s voice, the fabric merchant.

Jaskier turns to Lorenz, the bookseller, the last person to give his vote, who shrugs.

"I’m already overruled. As long as we finally leave this place. Haven't had good business in days", before strolling in the direction of the brothel.

"We set out on wednesday morning, don't be late."

The hike through the woods is bearable, made more pleasant by the company.  
The merchants clearly enjoy having a bard -and one so renowned- in their company. He learns that Sven specialises in silk and has to hide a snicker at that (and then the following discomfort), and is quite interested in the education at Oxenfurt.

With longing in his eyes he asks about the maths program and Jaskier is more than happy to share all the things he picked up on campus or in other students' beds -there isn’t quite such an afterglow bed talk, as with Oxenfurt students.

Jaskier almost feels pity, if he hadn’t talked about silks and tricks for spotting mediocre fabric, disguised as high quality, with such a passion, storing away the information for his next tailor visit.

When they stop for the night, he surprises one of the mercenaries by helping set up camp. For Melitele’s sake, he is a traveling bard, all of them know how to make camp, maybe not as well as him, but he had excellent reasons to study.

He plays fun wander songs, as drinking songs would be too mean spirited while the mercenaries are determined to stay clear headed, and composes a small ditty about how a tavern owner can't make sense of the books with the twist being that his dogs keep burying pouches in the garden.

While he takes a break, he is determined to give an excellent performance (not that he gives anything less than good ones) so that nobody would even consider demanding the discount back, when Will steps into the circle with pouches in his hands and declares: 

"If we are already indulging in music, I think it would be only fair if I also contribute this evening", before joining Markus, the mercenary, at the campfire. 

The stew is delicious, heavily flavored in an expert manner unusual for the road. The others clearly agree, Lorenz even taking out a book to mark down the spice combination, while Will rants about his supplier.

"And it‘s still not the worst I encountered, one time an absolute dumbass of a deliverer packed the spices in linen pouches and thought that was enough. And then it rained, very expected in spring."

"How?"

"Yes exactly!  
I might then know which spices were in what bag without smelling them, the colored lines making it very clear, not that I could utilize it, having turned absolutely unsellable." He throws his arms out and looks to the sky.  
"Woden let brain rain from the sky... or rocks, as long as you hit!"

"What?" Confusion colors Jaskier’s voice, he had never heard of that saying before, still rings true.

"My mom used to say that all the time, she grew up around Assengard."

Yellow leaves slowly sail to the ground, dotting the road. Jaskier walks between Sven and Wills carts, both deeply involved in a discussion about the merits of unorganized packing, but using every available space versus organized packing and sparing the cost of having to reorganize every arrival. Jaskier chipped in from time to time, firm believer in packing as much as possible, even if his doublets end up wrapped into his socks. But he also doesn't have a mule pulled cart, so he might be at a disadvantage.

"One time, I was playing at a wedding, which had been lovely up until that point, nice weather, no public family feuds, average food, but excellent wine. And I am coming to the father of the bride, having played my heart out on already aching feed. And it goes into the feet, standing or dancing for hours. Not that I have to tell _you_ that, having to stand the whole day in markets. And that fucker said, you know what he said, that that was my wedding gift for the happy couple."

"Asshole." Will huffs from behind him.

"Exactly" and Jaskier turns around to point at him.

"So I decided, if I don’t get my coin, I will take my fee in something else. So I filled my lute case with the most expensive wines, forgot to mention they owned a vineyard, and then I left, lute in one hand, case in the other. _And nobody noticed._ "

Grinning, he enjoys the laughter from the others, Markus besides them letting out a low belly laugh.  
He left out the part that made him the most furious that evening; "and because we allowed you to be accomplished by your monster _hunter_."

The path continues and Jaskier enjoys the crunch of the leaves under his boots, until Markus suddenly straightens his back.  
Something is afoot.

None of the mercenaries call for a halt, so he continues, careful to step around the leaves. His finger taps a rhythm on his lute case strap.

One, two, three...  
Maybe the bandits noticed their escort.  
-ght, nine, ten, ele-  
there's a hissing.  
Arrow. 

He stumbles back before he realises. Sven's remaining eye still shines with mirth.  
Then chaos.  
The mule, in its panic, manages to turn itself and the cart on the side.  
He ducks to cover, fuck, fuck, **fuck!**  
Hands switch to his boot knife.

Cold steel presses against his throat.  
Will's voice is even colder.  
"Don't move a muscle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Largo – broadly _(40–60 bpm)_


	2. Stringendo

The cold of the blade stings against his skin unmoving when he swallows, has to swallow again, his throat suddenly dry as a desert. It is already drawing blood, at least he thinks so, but he can't look down and the stinging might be just from the blade pressed against his skin, not that it really matters, he can survive a cut at his throat but not through.

"Up!" and he has no choice but to follow, the knife turns up enough to make clear that any other movement he will regret.

It's not the first time Jaskier has a knife to his throat, there are always people stupid enough to threaten him in front of Geralt, clearly underestimating the speed witchers are capable of.

But Geralt isn’t here, hadn't been here in a long time and he might just die here with any hope for reconciliation shattered and he hadn’t wanted to hope but he had.  
That the idiot witcher he loved would apologize.

Another knife pressed against his shoulder, worming its way under his shoulder strap, Will has to be leaning over his lute case, and it would probably make a funny picture if he wouldn’t be in it.

His arm darts up, grasping the cut leather, years of the importance of quality instrument casing and protecting his treasure in the middle of a fight making the action automatic.

"Oh, the bard doesn't want to give up his lute, does he think he can fight us with it?"  
Comes from one of the bandits walking towards him, clearly the leader with how the others are referring to him.

Everyone else of the convoy seems to be dead, a bloodbath he has no problem to see, even with his view forced forwards, and no reason why he should be spared. Suspicion takes over his mind alongside the relief of still being alive.

"Knock him out."

A bird is singing, a kingfisher, he is pretty sure. They only nest near rivers and he thinks he hears burbling between the sounds of half synchronised footsteps.  
Lippe, the river should be Lippe. 

They turn left, no right, tied up and slung over a horse, it is still the same way. With his head slumped, it’s hard to make out in which direction they are heading.

The blindfold dips into darkness, the sun probably overshadowed by trees.  
Could be a correlation with their change in direction, or just early winter dusk.  
Maybe, there hadn't been that many trees by the river, or the turn in direction put the sun along the trees. West?

He can't turn his head without risking letting his captors know that he is awake.  
When they finally come to a stop Jaskier is dizzy and he has to strain his ears to make out the code.

"The hunt was a success, he caught a doe, hares and a songbird."

"Then we should welcome him to his sun gilded cage.

Jaskier has to bite his lip to stop himself from making a sound, as he is unceremoniously thrown off the horse.

Someone must have hauled him to a chair, but he can only recall half of it when they start to replace the ropes with proper chains.  
Fuck.  
Trying to escape now would be ludicrous, way too many men, all alert. Reassuringly they don’t notice the hidden knife, just throw the boots aside before closing the shackles over his ankles.

Jaskier can't help the foreboding feeling that he had lost his chance when the last cuff locks into place.

"Let's wake him up!" And sounds of water sloshing.

 _Ready?!_

The ice water feels like needles on his skin, flailing around while his captors laugh. 

"What?" snapping his head around. They haven't removed the blindfold.

"What do you want?"

His head snaps around to fingers in his hair. Shit, he overlooked one of the men stepping behind him, but he only grabs the fabric and tears it off along with strands of his hair.

He hisses for show and prepares himself as a man steps forward, balled fist at the side. 

Rolling with a punch still hurts, so part of the pained groan is real.

Preparing for the follow-up-  
"Fuck you!"  
It swiftly comes. Rolling with a sucker punch is much harder, especially if you are chained to a chair.

He shakes his head as if he's dizzy, and he is, but not that much.

They expect him to be an emotional useless bard, so he will be.  
Dijkstra always said "Pride is for when you slip their throats."  
They haven’t stripped him of his clothes, excluding his boots. 

"Tell us where to find Geralt of Rivia."  
He can now make out that it’s the leader from before.

"Who wants to know?" 

"Captain Torres of the Nilfgaardian Army."

**Fuck….**

"And why does the Nilfgaardian army want him? If you want a witcher, you can just post a notice. Might not be the famous White Wolf, but they will do the job."

"That's none of your concern. Your concern is that this isn't the poor Countess de Stael’s bed you can wiggle your way out of through the window."

"I would never dare call the Countess poor. Your wife on the other hand..."

Counting on another punch, he is surprised when Torres just flicks his wrist and two soldiers tilt the chair to the ground. A cloth is placed on his face and they must want that information urgently if they are already resorting to water torture. The fabric clings to his wet skin and he doesn't know what he should concentrate on.  
How long had it been since they had started? Should he struggle? They are expecting that he doesn't know what’s to come, why nothing yet happened.

The water is still as cold but that's not even a factor. He feels like the one the time a rusalka had pulled him along into the deepest part of the lake. He had almost drowned. He can't drown. Geralt had jumped after him, silver sword at the ready, he had saved him then, he will save him now. No, not his - his shoveler.

When it finally stops and they place him upright again, he's shaking. Fuck. It can't have been more than a minute, definitely, probably more than a half.  
This is just a taste.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" 

"No. No! I got it. I totally got it. I just, I just," he hangs his head. "I don't know where he is. He left me months ago, said I was a good-for-nothing bard and fucking left!"  
Summoning tears is not hard under these circumstances. The cruel words still replaying in his mind from time to time, not that he would ever give his captors that power over him.  
They are inclined to believe him, not that it stops them from asking the question over and over again, it just makes them add new ones, about their travels and Geralt's habits.  
He hates that Torres knows enough about torture to wait after kicking the chair to the ground and placing the cloth on his face. Drowning in terror is almost the worst. As is the gratitude he can’t stop himself from feeling every time they put him upright again.

He doesn't have any information about where Geralt is or what Nilfgaard already knows. He can't manipulate the facts, spin a story of half-truths to mislead them without risking accidentally harming Geralt and Cirilla. There isn’t really any other reason for Nilfgaard to want him except for his child-surprise, even if the importance of a disappeared princess from an already conquered kingdom eludes him. 

So he plays the role of stubborn bard, _because he is_ , and says nothing.  
He will never betray Geralt, he had suffered through enough, he can suffer through this for him.  
He just has to accept that he will never see him again.

At night they unlock the two chains holding him to the chair. He doesn’t even have time to rub at his raw skin before a pair of handcuffs does the job for him. They toss him out the chair, to throw a quarter full waterskin and piece of stale bread at him, before placing a bucket in the corner. Jaskier just wants to keep lying on the floor, but he will regret it if he doesn’t relieve himself given the opportunity. He tries to lie back on the floor, but one of the guards grabs and pushes him to the wooden pillar in the middle of the tent, attaching his handcuffs so that there is an uncomfortable pull on his stretched arms while he sits.

His lockpicks sewn into his doublet cuffs are absolutely useless as long as one of the guards stays in the tent watching him.

"We will let you go, you can even have your lute back, just tell us what we want."

The lute dangles from Torres' fingers. She didn’t seem to have come to any harm, not that he was in the best position to judge (in both senses) as he was currently lying with the chair on the floor.

"You sure you want to keep your silence for a monster that didn’t even want you?"

He didn't even have to force the words past his lips to keep up the act.  
"I know a monster when I see one, and the White Wolf is not one, you on the other ha-"

For Geralt, he takes the punch gladly.

He is already at the end of his rope, just barely hanging on the frayed edges, when they drag him to the campfire, cutting off his doublet and chemise and throwing them into the fire. The red doublet blending into its environment.

"Turn him around!  
You sure you don't want to tell us anything about Geralt of Rivia?"  
Jaskier's gaze is drawn to the rod pulled from the fire.

It is a brand, a Nilfgaardian sun brand to add insult to injury. He presses his eyes closed, he should have never looked.

Torres steps closer and Jaskier could swear that he heard the sizzling of … of … of the sun.

"Don’t look away now."

He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to face-

"Look!"  
His vision is blurry with tears and he can feel the heat, so close to his face.

"Last chance to tell me everything, or everybody will know that you are just a Nilfgaardian whore."

And as much as he would have liked to insult Torres, spit in his face.  
It would just make it worse, and he doesn’t want to, and maybe it would be better, to make it worse, to get him to kill him, then he could be sure that he would never tell anything, but he doesn’t want to.

He is just so done, so tired from all the questions and he just closes his eyes.

The force of the sun slams between his shoulders, then the heat and he screams and screams, twisting in his rattling chains.

It feels like forever before the brand is lifted from his back.

His tongue burns from the acid vomit heaved up and the smell of burned flesh assaults his nostrils, just the worst, the worst by far. He’s burning alive.

He cries, it is the pain, the knowledge of which symbol he is forced to wear.  
Even if he gets out of this, this will be his mark **forever**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Stringendo – pressing on faster, literally "tightening"


	3. Precipitando

They leave him alone the next day, his ever present guard disappearing at some point. Not that he can use the chance.

Waking to sharp pain at his back, he looks up at Torres gleeful face and can’t stop the tears welling in his eyes. His boot is still pressed against his chest.

"You prove a bit harder to crack than expected, but one of Nilfgaards’ lovely sorceresses just sent me this little concoction.I expect you to be inconsiderate again, so I won't even make the first offer."

They wrestle his head sideways, before the small glass bottle with a thick black liquid is deliberately opened at his eye level and brought to his ear.

The screaming causes the soldiers to press harder, to keep his head still to turn to the other side.

It somehow gets worse. How can it possibly get worse. He screams and screams.  
It burns, _again_.  
It burns worse than the brand.  
He doesn’t know how long it takes, but from one moment to the next it’s gone. 

The sun is bright behind Torres as he enters the tent again, hasn’t even noticed he was gone.  
Behind him is another soldier with his beautiful lute.

"Hubert, be so kind and show the bard your talent."

Jaskier doesn’t get the point of it. Both are sitting down on wooden stools, as the soldier begins to play his own songs.  
He doesn’t sing, but after the first note of "Toss a Coin" it becomes clear. He doesn’t play bad, not on the level of a professional but good, and he can’t wrap his head around the point of this. Would be more effective if they just mistreated her with wild plucking.

Then the pain starts again, faint this time and for a while he can’t concentrate on anything else, until he notices that he can’t hear the high notes anymore, and they should be there, they’re his fucking songs. He knows them, and the soldier is playing them.  
With the pain growing so does the amount of missing notes, until he is suddenly overwhelmed with pain and the lost feeling of hearing nothing.

It goes on like this the whole day, the pain increasing slowly or as sudden as lightning, before disappearing the same way.  
All the while his lute plays his songs.

He didn’t think he was able to shed more tears after the ordeal in the morning, but when he can only hear ten notes of "Her Sweet Kiss", one escapes his dried out eyes. 

They light a torch some time after, when Torres excuses Hubert and kneels down next to him and holds out two glass bottles. One has the same black liquid, while the other is shimmering with teal.

"This one will make you permanently deaf, the other will heal you. I think you know what gets you which. Think about it, what is a bard without his hearing?"  
He pats his cheek, before leaving. He can make out soft lute tunes, before the flap falls closed again.

At his last meal, he shook so badly half the water had landed on him, he didn't even touch the bread, just curled in on himself trying to ignore the pain and that he should be able to hear the soldiers’ laughter. They left him like that.  
It’s just been two days, it feels like a lifetime.

Sounds alongside his perception slowly come back to him. Moonlight is falling through the tent gap.

He presses his hands against his ears as a wave of pain hits him. Trying to calm himself he rubs his skin in slow circles, shocked to notice raised skin. Scars like a network of roots spread from his ears.

The pain is gone as fast as it came. With it comes the realisation that they haven't shackled him back to the pillar.

Crawling to where his boots (that had been carelessly thrown away days ago) landed; his cuffs aren’t the only place he hides lockpicks.  
He can't tell if it takes him so long because he's out of practice or because of his shaking hands.

He places the chains softly on the ground, before stepping back to retrieve the water skin.  
Looking around he wracks his brain for anything else useful, he stops at the linen used for his torture. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath before retrieving them.

Deciding against taking the chains with him, if they think he ran in them their first hour of search, they will underestimate how far he could have gotten, but his ears still hurt and can’t gauge their noise.

Listening as well as he can, praying that it will be enough for patrols, he grabs everything before slowly squeezing under the tent wall.

His freezing toes thank him after putting on his boots, far enough from the tents for footsteps to get lost in the woods.

Taking stock, he has his boots, silver coins, lockpicks and flint still sewn in, his knife, the idiots didn’t notice, a waterskin, and clothes, minus the ones he will throw down stream and mislead his trail.

He hasn't got his lute.  
Filavandrel’s lute.

The camp is quiet as he sneaks out, it's probably by the campfire.  
He just has to sneak around the guards, he managed it out, he can manage it back in.  
He takes a step towards it, before he is able to stop himself.

It's too risky! 

Not for this one memento of his adventures, _his time with Gerald_.  
This is his only chance. 

And what would he do after he had it?  
Bury it? Hide it in these woods he didn't know?

Couldn't travel with a lute and without leading them right back to him and face more torture. He couldn’t withstand it again.

Jaskier grits his teeth to stop the tears from forming and heads towards the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Precipitando – hurrying; going faster/forward


	4. Ritenuto

Two fogged clouds leave his nose, his jaw clenched shut to stop his teeth from clattering. His waterproof boots are slowly soaking through after hours walking upstream. But he can't stop, he has to cross as much distance as possible, before the camp notices he's gone.  
The moonlight reflects on the water and he almost hopes for clouds to veil it again. Forcing him to stop ~~_take a break_~~ until he can barely make out his surroundings again. The third of his foolish wishes.

The sun is as high as it gets this time of year when he stumbles. The blanket, kept dry even through the waist deep parts, now as wet as the rest of him.  
He can't continue. He can't, he just can't. He at least has to get on his knees, or he will drown. As if he had not already been drowned. Maybe it would be better, won’t be able to break him, won’t be able to see Geralt again.  
Jaskier heaves himself up, soaks in air, before crawling to the bank. He has to get a fire going. Risky, but more dangerous if he gets sick. Scurry for some berries. Dry his clothes, no first dry his flint.  
And after all that he has to find the nearest human settlement to orient himself.

It takes a day for him to find the next cluster of houses, generously called a village, and until dusk he doesn’t dare to approach it, only hearing the lowest of noises the last hours.  
Reflecting in the river he saw the raised scars turn black as he lost all his hearing and bearings around him except for pain.  
Skirting around the village, looking for a sign post, something catches his eye. A laundry line swaying in the wind.

The shirt is rough under his fingers. It's gray and extremely boring and plain, exactly what he needs. Guilt simmers in his gut, he should leave some coin, a coin, but he doesn't have some to spare.  
Just take it and leave. He grits his teeth, a stolen shirt is a clue, something he can't risk. Frustrated he grabs the two other shirts, tosses one in the mud, pulls one pair of trousers down and the other so it hangs by only one leg. Swallowing his bile down, he climbs over the fence again and throws the other shirt haphazardly over it.  
He should check if it looks convincing enough for a gust of wind or animal, but he just quickens his steps and pulls the shirt on.  
After sneaking around the one house with light following from its insides, he darts to the small noticeboard.  
It's almost empty except for a warning to not go to the Caduceus Temple in Tangles Woods, monster infested. And a newer notice pasted half over it.

_Witcher Hired_  


  


Jaskier blinks, and blinks again. White noise fills his ears. He shakes himself before looking around.  
Throwing his blanket over his shoulders he makes his way back to the woods. It couldn't be, right? Right? But how often had their path accidentally crossed the first few years? In their acquaintance?  
Laughter burbles out from him, Geralt is right under Nilfgaard’s nose.  
_How incompetent are the spies?_  
But then again, he had escaped them. Leaves crumple under his fingers, he didn't register having sunk to his knees _  
~~collapsing~~  
_, the white noise has risen in intensity. The crinkling of leaves dampened to his ears. Keep going. Staying is not an option. Find Geralt. Search for shelter. First search for shelter, then Geralt.

The next village is a bit bigger and has a small bakery and he asks for the direction to the temple while buying a loaf of bread.  
"Oh I'm sorry, it's monster infested. Flensen put notices up for a witcher. My brother, way too nosy for his own good, one time he was convinced that Ms. Harris killed her cat's litter, she just overfed the things, but he says he saw a witcher on a dark horse ride through town. So you might be in luck."  
It's golden and glazy, and Jaskier has to stop his mouth from watering as the girl hands over the bread.

Shaking the crumbs from his shirt (he couldn't stop himself from eating it fresh in the next alley) he makes his way to where he saw the villagers laundry baskets to steal the best fitting (not that he has long to look around) pair of black pants.  
His red ones, even without the doublet, are too recognisable. 

The berries are now almost tasteless as he nibbles at them. His legs ache worse than the first weeks after Posada and his stomach finally realizes that grumbling in protest would get it nothing.  
"...don’t sing that."  
Before he can think he presses himself to the next tree.  
"Oh come on, it's a classic. _Toss a Coin to your Witcher_!"  
"We already tossed him half up front, so he better come back."  
"You’re just pissed off because you’re missing your appointment with your whore."  
"Hey, don't call Caroline that! I just don't understand how some people still don't get that the path has been closed, for weeks."  
He must be close to the temple. He quickens his step, until he basically runs in the direction of the temple, just barely keeping on to his makeshift sack out of a blanket.  
He is half sprinting, and only because his legs won’t give him more, when he finally reaches the clearing ravaged by a monster fight and sees the witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Ritenuto – slightly slower; a sudden decrease in tempo; temporarily holding back  
> (Also, sometimes ritenuto does not reflect a tempo change but rather a 'character' change)


	5. Affrettando

It can’t be!  
It just can’t!

No.  
**NO!**  
Please, don’t let this be true. Just _please_.  
He can’t, he won’t.  
Why would destiny be so cruel? Just, please.  
The one time he wants, no; he needs, he needs their paths to cross-  
And,  
And,  
It’s not Geralt.

It’s not Geralt.

How could he be so foolish? Why is he so stupid? To hope?  
Romantic ~~fool~~ bard! 

He can’t, he just can’t.

"You need to breathe."

Jaskier has to look up.  
When did he end up on his knees? _"Weak"_  
He can’t see through his tears, _"No use to cry, bard"_ but the witcher, the wrong witcher is closer now.

He can’t breath, he needs to breath, he needs to survive. He needs to go?  
Nilfgaard is on his heels and he has lost enough time on this foolish quest.

Pushing his hands to the cold earth he ~~tries to~~ stands.  
He won’t let them catch up, he can’t let them.  
His legs feel like pudding but he has to stand, he has to run.

He runs, the brand burns, he can’t breathe.  
He falls.

Can’t let them catch him,  
they will catch him. Maybe it’s better if he can’t breathe.  
Turn his body back to earth, so that flowers might find him useful.  
Jaskier fueling buttercups, wouldn’t that be poetic?  
Cold earth to welcome him but it isn’t.

Somebody is grabbing his arms?  
No? **No!**  
He kicks, he wriggles until everything goes dark.

Blinking awake he feels like floating away with the next breath is inevitable.

"You’re awake."

Yellow eyes, Geralt?  
No, the wrong witcher. Fuck.

"I gave you something to calm down. Didn’t want to risk a second panic, after you woke up. So now.  
It doesn’t do anything other than make you calmer, you can still run."

Jaskier is lying on a bedroll. He sits up, not knowing what else to do.

"Would be able to catch me."  
Fuck his throat is sore. 

A waterskin is pressed into his hand, and he takes a few greedy gulps before giving it back.

"And why would I do that?"  
The witcher raises an eyebrow at him.

Jaskier looks around.  
They are still in the clearing he found him in. The giant centipede corpse is gone, and stacked scales are lying next to the witcher’s packs.  
Dusk is breaking but a campfire has been built. Confusing.  
He knows that Geralt prefers to sleep without it after a fight, no interest in attracting predators after a hunt.

"I know that humans prefer to see the camp they sleep in."

His confusion must have shown on his face and he ducks his head.  
Questions are forming on his tongue.

"Do you want a cup of tea for your throat? I can mix you something that will help, but it would be a waste if you don’t drink it."

"If the tea comes with the name of who I am drinking with."  
Flashing a charming smile or at least he hopes to. The witcher gives him an amused smirk, before pulling one of his packs to him.

"Eike."  
He holds Jaskier's gaze for a few seconds before he begins to rummage.

"I also know who you are, Jaskier."

**Fuck!**

"There are rumors of Nilfgaard searching for Geralt of Rivia."  
After pulling pouches out of his bag, the witcher turns around and puts a pot on the wood before lighting it with Igni.

"Everybody knows that Jaskier the bard travels with and sings about him. Nilfgaard would be a fool not to search for him, too.  
And then somebody fearlessly runs to a witcher in the middle of a contract with a smell of dark magic and blood clinging to him. The conclusion wasn’t that hard to draw.  
The calluses on your fingers just confirm it."

Pulling his hands to his chest, as if hiding them now would make a difference.

The quiet is loaded with tension and Jaskier wants to ask questions. Just as long as he doesn’t ask, everything is fine.  
But that was never his strategy, even as a child, curious, talk, deal with it later. He doesn’t want to give that up to Nilfgaard too. He just wants to swallow his tongue.

Deep in thought it takes him a while to notice that Eike is holding a steaming cup out to him. Curling his fingers around it, enjoying the warmth he takes a cautious sip, and now is his chance, now.  
The next sip is bitter on his tongue and he really should ask. Maybe he should ask for honey, but he guesses it’s not a luxury this witcher has.  
He takes another sip.

"What now?"

"Now I would like to see to your wounds? Seemed imprudent to do so while you slept."

"And then what ?" 

He probably could throw the cup, witcher or not, hot water burns. If he didn’t manage to miss. He moves one hand from the cup, grabbing some earth. With witcher hearing it might not matter, better use the seconds to run.

"The Wolf School is not the only one that profits from your songs." 

Jaskier looks at his eyes . A milky yellow, intense, not the orange yellow of Geralt’s, they’re like citrines, he had spent too many hours disregarding jewelry because the clearest sapphire couldn’t compare with a piece made with amber reminding him of Geralt's eyes, giving him comfort and safety. These citrines aren’t them, but the underlying intensity and honesty is.

"If I wished to collect the, admittedly, very high reward on your head. You would have woken up bound on my horse."

"Just because of my songs?"

He remembers how Geralt was treated, the thrown rocks, the "Witcher Tax", the refused services, but that had been after Blaviken. He doesn’t know how other witchers had been treated before and after his songs made their way across the continent. The four times they had encountered another witcher, he had followed Geralt's lead, no matter how much he would have liked to question them.

"They must have tossed a lot of coins to you."

A snort and he doesn’t force his face back into a scowl, grinning at him. 

"Not the biggest fan of torture and kidnapping in general."

"So what about your school then?"  
Looking for his medallion, Eike makes it easier and holds it up, a birdhead is etched into it.  
"Raven."

This might work out okay. What does he have to lose?  
_His chance to end it._

He has no other option, does he? Even if Eike works for Nilfgaard he can’t lead them to Geralt anyway, making such a plot rather pointless.  
There is no better chance of survival than with a witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Affrettando – speeding up with a suggestion of anxiety
> 
>   
> [ **Eike** ](https://blooodyink.tumblr.com/eike)  
> [Eike's Medallion](https://64.media.tumblr.com/33f9e901beef1c7dbb6402201b589f62/tumblr_inline_qjn5f1r16I1r59sfh_500.png)  
> (Edited Gwent Cardback)


	6. Hares

There is a snapping sound east and Geralt stops himself from releasing a breath.  
At least Ciri won't go hungry with a caught hare. He pockets the picked verbena and stands up, tapping Ciri’s shoulder to tell her that he will be back shortly.

Normally he would check out the snares in the evening, so that he wouldn’t scare away any prey in the area that might be caught in the other traps, but he can't risk a fox stealing Ciri’s dinner.

Food has grown sparse the last few weeks, like his coin, but what they can’t buy they hunt for themselves (Ciri has learned what berries or plants to pick for potions surprisingly quickly) but with winter looming the forests are growing sparser.

He keeps having to buy supplies from markets and without Jaskier to negotiate, it cuts into his reserves.  
He doesn’t want to send Ciri alone to get supplies, a risk he isn’t willing to take. Market places are an easy ambush point.  
Too many exits to all have in sight, people coming and going, never knowing who might be a spy or informant.

But they couldn't go on like this, time would only make wild animals harder to catch and the cold would make it necessary for Ciri to sleep in an inn from time to time.

But it is one thing if a few merchants see a witcher buying supplies, it is another when the White Wolf takes a contract. The latter could reach Nilfgaard’s ears. He can only hope that they are far enough north that when a platoon reaches the village, he is long gone. He can deal with soldiers but not with an army.

The fire crackles and Ciri holds out one of the hare's legs to him.   
"Eat."

"You have to eat, too."

"Not as much as you." Ciri rolls her eyes. "Even you can’t protect me if you are half-starving".

"Still well enough."

"I know we are low on coin, but I saw a notice in the last village. Some merchant is paying for Gravier jaws!"

"And who defends you while I hunt?"

"You could teach me how to defend myself!"

"We will do that when we reach Kaer Morhen. Now we focus on making it there."

"Won't matter if we starve first," Ciri murmurs under her breath.   
Still not fully used to witcher hearing. But she has gotten more comfortable traveling with him so it either means that she is actually worried about food, or wanted him to hear it. He doesn’t know what would be better.

"I won't let you starve." Ciri’s jerk means she forgot, fuck, so she actually is worried.   
Geralt meets her gaze and tries to convey his seriousness.   
Ciri doesn’t blink. 

"You can’t protect me from the weather."   
Before picking up a stick and poking at the fire.

"Nilfgaardians are not the only ones that can hurt you if I am on a hunt!"

"Then teach me how to defend myself, not from a whole army but from the others. So that we, or I don’t end up frozen or starved **or worse at the hands of Nilfgaard**."  
Ciri takes a deep breath, before throwing the stick into the fire, and Geralt should say something, he doesn’t know what.

"I don’t know, I can’t control it. But I think that my scream won’t save me surrounded by an army." And now he has to hold her gaze, and he wants to look away, can’t bear the vulnerability, but if Ciri can stand it, so can he.   
"But I am not helpless left alone."


	7. Meno Mosso pp

There are drops falling from the leaves hitting the ground in an irregular pattern.  
It should annoy, it would annoy him, but he can't hear. Can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his head. The pain is spreading from his ears through his whole body and as bad as it is, it still can't distract him enough from the uncertainty of the witchers' return.

Eike had left in the morning, sitting close and explaining that leaving the contract unfinished would be too suspicious, having left him wrapped into a leather coat and with shelter from the rain sure to come.

Another shower brews on the horizon and his scent would be swept away, the perfect opportunity to make his way farther north, helped by a good coat. He just has to stand up and move his legs.

If the witcher returns with Nilfgaard this whole endeavor would have been as pointless as his life. 

He would only have to ignore the pain. And hadn't he already done that his whole life, ignoring the heartbreak for Geralt? 

But why would Eike have treated his wounds and given Jaskier one of his coats!  
To lull him into a false sense of security. To use him, follow him or just to break him further.

Aargh, biting his fist, he shouldn't scream, not in a forest full of beasts. Crying while his ears bleed and he raises his hand to wipe it away, blood on clothes always suspicious, dry, he repeats the movement, nothing.  
Inspecting his hand, there is no blood on his fingers. It just feels like his heart is bleeding out of his ears. Wiping his face, at least the tears are there.  
He smells blood, but how? 

Running would be pointless with a witcher on their side, even when he has the advantage of the rain, he had followed Geralt tracking monsters in damp moors.

Or he could be blowing his chance of help, Eike wouldn’t follow him given the inconvenience, no matter how grateful for his influence.  
Making it easier for him to lead Nilfgaard to their goal, bet on the wrong horse.

Fuck, his hand, he’s bitten throughhis skin, shit, he takes a shaky breath and he can't hear it. He can’t hear it.  
Exhaling before licking the bleeding bite on his fingers.

He raises them to his ear, snapping.  
One time, two times _…nothing_.  
Not a sound. 

Jaskier clasps his hands over his mouth, losing the only solid food he had in days wouldn't do him any good, no matter how much he wants to be sick.

Moving like this is an impossibility.

The knife shakes in his hand, he crosses his arms, it looks like he was prepared and kept his weapon hidden, but the cold of the blade sinks into his veins. If Torres follows Eike.  
All he can do now is wait and endure the pain.

Blurry boots, alone, enter his vision.  
They come closer, before kneeling in front of him. Jaskier manages to lift his head. It hurts so much. 

Eike is saying something, he can’t understand, he moves right next to him and starts again. Jaskier can only shake his head, winces, grits his teeth through new waves of pain. He blinks his tears out of his eyes, while the witcher leaves.  
Returning with writing utensils he places the parchment on his knee to write, before holding it out to him.

__

_It will be easier if you sleep on the way to the druid. You wouldn't be in pain, but only if you allow it._

Jaskier thinks about it, not that there's much to think about, he uncrosses his arms and places the dagger on the ground, before giving a small nod.  
He tenses, but Eike writes another sentence on the paper.

__

_Important that we don't use our names, I will be Emil, what should I call you?_

"Call me…" he starts answering, but he can’t hear his own voice, of course he can't hear his own voice! Just a weird echo in his head. New tears make their way down his cheeks and isn’t that pathetic?!

The feather grazes his arm as Eike holds it out to him, his skin still echoes with the coldness of steel as he writes.

__

_Awnik_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Meno Mosso – less movement; slower  
> pianissimo (pp) - very gently


	8. Allegretto Ma Non Tanto

Jaskier sleeps.  
He sleeps and he rides, or better lets himself be ridden -not in that way. Sleepily he remembers eating, drinking and relieving himself, but he isn’t sure how much of that is real, one time Geralt walks alongside him, so it can’t be all of it.

At one point they enter a cottage and he hears _"I will heal you"_ weak like from far away, and he doesn’t know if it is because of his ears or if he is still too hazy from sleep.

Her brown eyes are full of motherly care and he wants them to swallow him whole, to be warm and home, and he might be more out of it than he thought if he thinks of his mother as home. Lettenhove hasn't been his home since he was a teenager and he knows his family loves him in different ways, cares for him. They didn't mind his chosen career, but showing himself would be more of a gamble than anything else. Looking over his shoulder was second nature in Lettenhove. 

Oxenfurt was different, is different, too much of a city of the arts for people to look too close if the person in the dress and make-up was actually a woman. Home had been the specific bars and clubs where everybody knew who you were but never called you by name.  
Flying didn't feel that good, soaring through the air couldn't possibly be as freeing as the hour long conversations about art or sexual encounters. 

He flew too high, showed too much of himself and being a traveling bard, his songs echoing through the continent’s taverns always had been his dream, he just thought he would teach longer than a year.

Wouldn't have met his destiny otherwise -Geralt would hate that- not destiny then, fine by him, his love, his friend, and Gerald couldn't lie to him, he had been angry and an asshole, but they had been friends and cared for each other. Jaskier used to run out of pages, always overestimating how many pages he had left or underestimating how much he could fill in a creative fancy in a matter of hours, but with Geralt it only happened once. Over the years he even went out of his way to get the type Jaskier favored (thick paper, one page lined the other blank).

He had never expected to be on the road so long, never knowing where it was safe and after the event in Oxenfurt women were safer, he just wished to be held by strong muscular arms or be fucked through his orgasm, especially after he saw Geralt more dance than fight his way through heaps of monsters, the gore and blood only adding to the picture -at least until he came into smelling range.  
Oxenfurt stood through all that time, a safe heaven he knew to navigate but his home no longer.

The dress has the color of the ocean and contrasts her dark skin. Moving around it reminds him of the ocean and then waves crashing at the coast. No matter how calm they seem, you are never supposed to forget the danger lurking under the surface. The sea is never fully safe.

The healer, she is a druid, right?, helps him sit up on the bed, and fuck, his ears! There is so much pain he's drowning in it. Stop, just stop.  
Before he can rip his ears out, she grabs his wrist.

" wil e bett r a mo ent."

Jaskier waits, what else can he do, and slowly the pain ebs away. It’s replaced with sound, irritating sounds. The crackling of the fire, a bird sings outside. It hurts, he wants to cry.

"Thank you, **thank you** ," he looks up and twists his hands to hold hers, "I can’t possibly express my tha…" 

Her brown eyes are filled with regret and pity.  
"I couldn’t break the curse."

Jaskier drops her hands as if they burned him.

"You said you would!" 

"I've never seen such strong magic, it’s way beyond my capabilities."  
Her hands are up as if to placate him, as if she hadn’t lied to him. 

**"Fuck you!"** he’s screaming and standing, but before he can regret that decision, Eike is by his side to stop him from toppling over.

"I’m sorry, I really am. I gave Emil the recipe for the tincture."

"But I am fine _now_ , I can hear fine! _Good!_ If I just keep taking it, shouldn’t it stay this way?!"  
Desperation colors his voice but he can’t stop it, like he can’t stop the new tears.

After taking another step back the druid answers, looking at Eike next to him.  
"It sadly doesn’t work like that. It will stop the spread and help a bit with the pain, but nothing more." 

Eike nudges his shoulder and he sits back down on the bed.  
"There is a herb, lovage, it intensifies healing properties, it grows at the Szrbarts Lakes. It will help until we find a way to break the curse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Allegretto – moderately fast _(102–110 bpm)_  
>  Ma Non Tanto - but not so much


	9. Adagio

The black stallion is called Ostróżka and lets Jaskier ride him without problems. He is sturdy and doesn't complain when he lies rather than sits on his back but lacks character.

Jaskier brushes him down while Eike prepares their dinner. It's a good enough day for his ears to help and he wants to, he might relish in the luxury of a maid, but he won't let somebody else do it, when he can help, isn't used to it.

Marleen, predictably and devastatingly, has already proven to be right, as his hearing rapidly declined in the morning. The pain was lessened but still excruciating when they left the cottage and he couldn't hear anything. It got a lot better after that morning, the interval lessened and dampened, giving weight to the assumption that that morning had been a counterattack.

Keeping his eyes on the brush, he clears his throat.

"You axiied me, right?"

Jaskier had never been axiied before, but he had seen Geralt do it on a few occasions -one memorable one where he had convinced a gwent player whose knife was already drawing blood from his neck, that Jaskier hadn’t cheated (he hadn’t, he was way too good for that) and to hand over one of his best cards (that disappeared in Geralt's deck).

Geralt didn't like it, he of course never said anything but Jaskier could see his shoulders hunching whenever he had to do it.  
Eike didn't seem to have a problem with influencing people's minds.

"Mhh?" He looks up from where he is cutting a piece of wood.

"On the way to Marleen, you used Axii on me."

"Oh no, that wasn't Axii, that was Somne."

"Somne?"

"Yeah, it's a sign that makes people go to sleep. You can also use Axii for that, but I prefer Somne." He places the knife down, to check on the rabbits.

"What's the difference?"

"Axii makes people do what you want, while Somne makes the people actually tired. Like some times you go to bed and sleep not because you are tired, but because it's necessary.  
You take longer to fall asleep, you toss and turn. Axii works like you telling somebody to go to sleep and they do it no matter how tired they are. Somne on the other hand makes the person tired. In my experience it holds longer and the sleep is deeper."

"But why, you can't tire out bodies, can you?"

"No, I don't think so. I think it's like... you are a poet, haven’t you had days where you have these super important discussions and you are not doing anything physical, but at the end of the day you are as tired as if you had pushed a boulder up a hill.  
I think it works like that."

"I have never seen Geralt use it."

Eike shrugs.  
"Not every witcher is good at every sign, a friend of mine is atrocious at Igni, but excels at Aard -Wait, bad example, that may be only because those were the priorities of the school."

"What is your favorite?"  
Jaskier doesn’t really expect an answer.

"My best sign is Yrden, use it a lot, think it's useful, fits my fighting style."

Noticing that he hasn’t answered the question.  
"And your favorite?"

Eike laughs out loud.  
"Witchers aren't supposed to have favorite signs. You should always work on the signs you have not mastered yet to expand your arsenal."

Jaskier throws him a disbelieving glance.

"It's Quen, I am not as good at it. I would like to be better, but I never got the hang of it like Igni or Yrden.  
Aard is my worst, fucking hate that sign or rather how to deal with it."

"How long till we reach the Szrbarts Lakes?"  
"We are not going to the Szrbarts Lakes, we are on our way to Murivel, gonna stop in Pilana I need to resupply."

Jaskier blinks, aren’t they making their way to the lakes?

"What about that herb?" he hadn’t imagined that, he’s sure, he might have lost all hearing when they left Marleen’s cottage, but he remembers the conversation the day before.

"I lied."

Jaskier turns around, throwing his arms out. "Why?" 

"So she can’t betray us."

"Why would she, she helped us. Doesn’t even know our real names."

He makes his way to the campfire, throwing the brush onto the saddle where it belongs.

"You are a cursed man, traveling with a witcher, not really that common.  
Also I’m not saying that she would betray us willingly, but they tortured you. What stops them from torturing her, or threatening her family?"

Eike stands up, and he instantly takes a step back, but he just walks around him, to pack the brush away with more force than necessary.

"Would you have held out if they had beaten Geralt of Rivia? Other friends you hold dear?"  
He isn't sure, maybe, if Nilfgaard would want that information it could only lead to suffering.

"For someone you barely know?" Raising his eyebrows at him.

"She helped us!"

"And I trusted her with it. Doesn't mean I trust her with our lives.  
I don't trust you with my life if the cost is your witcher’s life. And don’t worry, I understand. Expect to be tricked."

Eike returns to the fire, rotating the rabbits over it.  
"Shit."  
Eike fishes one of them out of the fire.  
"That's gonna be mine."

At dinner he tries not to stare at Eike eating the slightly black meat without a hint of discomfort and then continues in the same way with the bones. 

He huffs.  
"Bones are a good source of calcium" before continuing to eat the bones alongside the meat. 

Jaskier turns back to his dinner, embarrassed to be caught staring. Especially for someone used to witchers.  
"Sorry, Geralt never does that."

"I mean he is a Wolf. I'm a Raven." As if that explains it.

"Are the mutagen that different?"

"No not that much, at least I don't think so. It's more the teaching, what habits get sent along with you on the path."

Jaskier hums in consideration, before turning back to his rabbit. Not really sure if he should just throw the bones away like normal, or offer them, but that would be kinda weird wouldn't it?

In the end he throws them into the fire.

The fire dances while quiet blankets the clearing. Creasing his pants trying to figure out how to break the silence, if he should? It isn’t an awkward one, but a long way from being comfortable.

Still not sure, Eike pulls out a waterskin and tosses his head back, before handing it over, Jaskier takes it and smells it to confirm his suspicion, wine, red, smells surprisingly sweet, before following suit.

"The school, the teachers, they all have, had, different tests following the trials.  
Ravens, for Ravens, one is the so-called "Trial of the Eye".  
The task was simple: follow my teacher unnoticed around the village, gather as much information as possible and at the beginning I thought it was just that. An exercise in stealth, because my teacher asked about the contract, talked to the villagers about who had died and how they knew it had been Devourers, the usual stuff.  
After he joined me outside the village he quizzed me, which blade oils to apply, what potions to take, how many arrows and knives to take with me, all in consideration of the total weight and how to preserve resources.  
And then,  
then"

Eike suddenly holds out his hand and Jaskiers passes back the wine. After, he meets his eyes.  
"His answer was that I would be "greatly prepared for the contact the villagers wrote" and then sent me off with all that I had listed to kill two Devourers.  
Hard but not impossible."

"There were five Devourers. They broke my leg, seven ribs and would have died if my teacher hadn’t stepped in."

"Later he told me to remember how the village hadn’t had a good harvest, how the one farmer woman he had spoken to still breastfed her child of 18 months, why these people were desperate enough to fall back on tricks."

"Expect to be tricked."  
Jaskier repeats the words said earlier. 

"Yes. And then he asked me if I had noticed the merchant’s wife, her dress flicked a lot but she had a ring. A family heirloom with lots of history and stories behind it worth enough to make up the difference between two Devourers and the low price for five. A piece with dozens of happy memories attached to it, but instead of facing the question of how much these memories were worth, more than their lives, they chose that they were worth more than mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Adagio – slowly with great expression _(66–76 bpm)_


	10. Ghouls

The coin for the ghouls is meager but acceptable. Villagers preparing for war are even more pressed with their coin, not that he can blame them.  
At least he could haggle a bed at the local inn out of it.

They are preparing for more dead to bury, a gruesome thought but it got him a much needed contract.

Now he just has to deliver the ghouls’ heads to the alderman.

Stopping in front of the contract board by the tavern, checking it again. He had unnecessarily coated his sword in necrophage oil, but after the last ghoul bite he didn't want to risk it.

A few towns back had been a contract for a pack of barghests, good coin but leaving Cini alone through the whole night was unacceptable. The risk was too high, sleeping in an inn was too risky, but Ciri needs a warm bed and they are basically out of coin.

The contract board doesn't show anything here except a flyer to sell jewelry.

Fuck!  
He should have taken the barghest contract.

"You looking for a contract?"

Ghoul blood drips to the ground as he turns around.  
Geralt inclines his head. The man, a merchant, but under the good coat the doublet shows clear signs of wear and war.

"There is a town north-west from here, Walkn, they have to hire a witcher every year for some kind of seasonal monster problem. Supposedly takes some time, but with two of you, that time would be cut in half, might make the mayor even spring a bonus, when they can get into the forest a few days earlier this year."

Geralt doesn’t really know what to make of it.   
It could be someone he knows, they are on the way to Kaer Morhen after all, but so far away that it being a Wolf isn’t a guarantee, just likely. 

A Cat would sell him out to Nilfgaard.  
A Cat might sell him out, but he can't imagine a Cat coming back every year for the same job.

The town is north and not far from one of the possible paths he thought of. He could ask from which school the other witcher was and decide then. Until then he hoped that the coin from the ghouls would stretch enough for Ciri.


	11. Calando

The water long lost its initial heat but Jaskier stays in the tub, relishing in the small comfort, more lying than sitting in the tub.The water goes up to his eyes and he taps a (new) melody out on the wood, enjoying the cushyness of the water.

It's not a bad day, but he came to expect that to change.

To his pleasant surprise they are staying at an inn in Pilana. _Would be unusual to not take that opportunity._

It's on the cheap side with old straw mattresses and linen sheets but the tub they rolled in is big enough to comfortably enjoy a hot bath, so they gain points in the most important aspects.

Jaskier doesn't hear Eike come in but he sees the light flooding in from the floor as it opens, before Eike locks the door behind him.  
Seeing that as the wakeup call to leave the water, he makes his way out of the tub.

Eike places the wares next to the bed before coming over, not that there is much distance to cover with a room this size.  
Two strides and Eike leans on the wall to get rid of his boots, a chair too much luxury to ask for.

Eike’s armor is quite different from Geralt’s. No studded parts, just hardened leather and more leather.  
And then of course there are the colors, browns and greens, the only black part the vest, and even that had the brown plate.

Scrubbing his hair. No use getting sick on everything else.  
When he is almost satisfied, he catches the movement of Eike placing the swords next to the tub, before pulling the green shirt over his head.

He stops,  
he stops and stares before rubbing his hair dry with new viciousness.

Instead of a muscular chest he anticipated from a witcher, and nobody can blame him for looking when it is freely offered, there is just scar tissue.

"They cut them off," 

Eike folds, way neater than necessary, the shirt before placing it on the armor, before removing the smallclothes.  
Jaskier’s eyes flicker down before forcing them up to meet Eike's eyes. His. Her gaze is unrelenting but honest, no hint of shame for her scarred chest or the hairy triangular shape between her legs not holding a penis.

"I thought women witchers were a myth."  
He couldn't stop the curiosity spilling from his tongue.

Maybe because she knows that she holds all the cards in their relationship.

Eike snorts, before stepping into the tub.  
"How long did you travel with a witcher?  
Wouldn't call myself a woman, but Cats have always trained men and women."

"Geralt was never really forthcoming with details" he states and sits down on the tub's edge, close enough to still hear her voice.

"But if they are, why cut the breasts off?"  
Seems such an unnecessarily cruel practice.

"Oh no, it's not for appearances, it's for archery. They can, though they don't have to, hinder the undisturbed release of a bow string."  
The underlying bitterness is clear and he holds back a shiver, before it becomes obvious that the cause of it is the increasing pain of his ears.

"They are turning black again. I bought fisstech, as a stronger pain medication. I think you might need it. Have you ever taken some?"

"I studied poetry in Oxenfurt." Eike just gives him a look, and points to where he can find it.  
She must have been gone longer than he thought, or maybe she used one of the many witcher senses to find the next dealer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Calando – going slower (and usually also softer)


	12. Allegro mp

The last rays of sunshine color the leaves yellow-white when they leave the forest behind. The last workers are wrapping up their business, most of them transporting carts of cut logs.

Jaskier presses his face back into Ostróżka’s mane, if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it's Roach, Geralt leading her after days of hard travel.  
But his legs don't ache and he doesn't hear heavy armored steps next to him.  
His eyelids are bright and he turns his head before giving up and opening his eyes.

Eike's steps might be lighter, because of the different armor, but he should still be able to hear them.

The path turns into a road, stone bricks laying the way to the city in an orderly manner. He can hear the stallion’s hooves, metal clicking against stone, weak but there.

They follow the streets into the poorer districts, planning to spend less on an inn and he is forced to endure the looks of more seedy characters, not that he has reason to worry, a witcher by his side.

Nobody should know him here. It's not a city he has memories of. He might have passed through on his own or with companions but except when his coin had been especially low and that had happened less and less over the years, he would have walked around at least the middle district of town.

Nobody should know him here, rat him out to Nilfgaard.

Touching his leg, before coming to a stop in front of a brothel and he wants to snap because now wasn’t the time to get his dick, wait, would she even be served? Maybe in some places, others would call the guards on her and witcher or not and officially not a crime, except for in Kovir who said that the corrupting force who made the poor woman lay together should be whipped and locked away -in practice meaning the one with less of a title or influence would be the one suffering the punishment.

There is strong confidence in Eike’s eyes and he trusts that she has a plan.

Eike takes the saddle bags over her shoulder, after Jaskier slides from the saddle.  
A strong grip around his bicep when spots dance in his vision.  
He nods and the hand leaves him to grab the bedrolles, not risking them being stolen.

After a deep breath he makes his way to the brothel's, _"Sow Thistles"_ , door, not looking at anyone else and not being looked at in the specific way only people around brothels do.

It's too early for the big crowd and after seeing the receptionist’s mouth move, a greeting -sharp and to the point- from the expression, Eike places a few coins on the table.

"Here to see Magtalena."

Does Eike know this place?!

The man picks up one of the coins, studying it, before collecting them by sliding them into a pouch. He leads them up the stairs.

He doesn’t know what to expect.

The room is plush and comfortable but most tellingly lacks a bed. It's clearly a room meant for the staff, his guess the boss, though he can't really understand yet why Eike would meet the boss. Would risk the city for a brothel owner, but as long as he's here he might as well enjoy the luxury of comfortable cushions it brings.

Eike pulls out a goblet and two cups, before sitting down next to him on the coach. He hopes she knows what she’s doing, filling his cup, before settling in for a wait.

The next time the door opens a beautiful woman walks into the room, her cape is dirty and old but he can make the shimmering of fine silks out under it.  
She locks the door and he smiles as Eike traverses the room in fast steps, to pull her in a tight hug.

"And here I thought the next time I see you you might actually just want to enjoy the company of one of my girls."

He can't stop himself from glancing at Eike. Not that she notices with her back still turned to him, the woman though does.  
Eike’s greeting is too quiet for him to hear.

After both of them are seated and the woman has filled her cup and refilled his, he shifts uncomfortably.

"I' m.."

"Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Jaskier."  
Circling the cup under her nose. 

"Former member of the Redanian Intelligence Service, as far as you can ever be a former member of an Intelligence Service without being dead."  
He can make out movement beside him, Eike taking her turn to stare at him. 

How? 

And he must have said that out loud or it might just have been clear from everything.

"Oh, Dijkstra’s ego would never admit it, but he knows that I have the best spy network in all of the Northern Kingdoms. There is nothing quite like soldiers trying to impress the prostitutes they pay." 

She takes a sip of her wine, smug and radiating confidence, knowing that she knows all the cards he holds. 

"And you are?"

"The Madame." 

Moving the cup to his lips he finishes it, before placing it on the table and pouring it full again. 

A lot of questions are burning on his tongue but he knows she won't give him more than she deems wise.

"I know Nilfgaard is searching for Geralt of Rivia and Cirilla of Cintra, confirmed to be in his company. They are also searching for his loyal bard. Rumor has it they already have him, others say they are searching for him in Szrbinda."

Marleen had sold them out. Szrbinda is directly by the Lakes. Jaskier’s knuckles turn white around the cup, relieved that it’s not a glass.  
She sold them out. 

"Do you know where he is?"  
The tone is questioning and a hint insisting. He almost forgot that Eike was there. 

"Rumors place him in the region around Yspaden, but I will go through reports to find out something more concrete."

"You will help us?" shock colors his voice. 

The Madam actually smiles at that.  
"Eike is one of my closest friends and I trust their decision in this situation. But I require something in return, An honest answer. And then you can tell me anything."

She removes her earrings before placing them on the table, and pulling her black braid over her shoulder, the movement deliberately directing the focus to her now elven ears.

"Why make the elves the villains of ‘Toss a Coin’? Using their generous gift against them." There is a certain levelness to her voice, and he takes another sip, before placing the cup on the table. Looking her directly in the eyes.  
"I couldn’t change anyone’s perspective on elves in a song, no matter how good. Not from the mouth of a bard nobody’s heard of. What I could do, what I did, I changed the perception of one single person. The person that saved me." 

Looking up into the Madame’s interested eyes.  
"I gave Filavandrel an army so people would be afraid of them. That was all I could do. What I was willing to do. They carelessly destroyed my first own instrument. It accompanied me through Oxenfurt." 

Raising her eyebrows and making clear with a motion of her hand that she knows there is more to it. Like she would see right through a lie, it is clear that she doesn’t trust him, like when she knew he worked for the Redanian Intelligence Service. 

Eike has her full trust and maybe he can get her to see that he doesn’t mean any harm. He just has to be honest, lay himself bare.  
Focusing on the glimmer of her earrings still laying on the table before returning her gaze. 

"There was this one chord procession I had trouble with at the beginning and a student a year above me offered to assist. I got the hang of it with his help. It just wasn’t up to my standards, but that wasn’t the only reason that I asked for continued tutoring, not that I could admit it to myself then.  
And one night, alright, he was clearly fed up with my whining that it didn’t feel natural, so he sat behind me and placed his fingers on mine. And I got it, I finally got it after what felt like forever and not long enough of his skin touching mine. I couldn’t bring myself to kiss him, but he did."  
Picking up the glass again, he drowns it, and maybe he should keep himself in check, but this was really good wine and more so a really long night.  
"He brought me to the places where I could go and learn."

After he tells her every small excruciating detail he can recall from his captivity and continues to drink way too much wine, the Madam leads him to a guest room.

"If I can give you a tip? You are a great bard, you know how to shape words. Lip reading is quite useful, and you should be able to pick it up fast."

He falls straight onto the soft bed after crossing the room, with his ears clear, he can make out their voices.

"You sure you can manage?"

"Yeah. And I will come back in a few minutes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo Allegro – fast, quick, and bright _(120–156 bpm)_  
>  mezzo piano (mp) - half softly

**Author's Note:**

> This story chapters vary in lenghts and some contain cliffhangers.  
> With this being a Big Bang Story, they don't have to stay that way long, but I still would appreciate reactions, assumtions & comments on them, no matter how far they might land from the truths!
> 
> I will also reply to comments, so if you don't want that for any reason, just put _-Whisper_ at the end of it.
> 
> It's part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)


End file.
